Rise of a Martyr
by missxusagi2807
Summary: Committed to a fierce battle for survival. Mired in violence, back with a vengeance, a force to be reckoned with this is a man who knows only how to destroy others.
1. Segal Linville de Bouchard

His destiny awaited his presence...

And the empty streets with shadows scattered all over, showed him the way.

In the darkest of the dark night he was dispatched to give shape to the rebellion.

Thousands of angry men and women screamed out for freedom.

Amidst their cries rose a hero.

'The Voice of the Revolution.'

And down went the Bastille.


	2. The Beginning of the End

1788\. The cradle of French Revolution.

In the overcrowded streets of Versailles, a man hurriedly passed others like crossing waves of human heads, dressed in all sorts of colours. These people were his power, his motivation and his shield.

Things were already bad, and now it was going to be worse. Worse in the history of Versailles... Worse in the history of France.

Hidden under the grey cloak covering his head, his eyes silently peered at the crowd everywhere. Poor people... who did not know what was about to unfold in the next few hours. Clueless, looking dismally at the future through the lens of truth for the first time.

But he knew... His presence in a small town like Versailles at a time like this signified the beginning of a new dawn. Or may be the end of it. Beginning or end, it was certain that this man and this town were about to be immortalised by the world for the generations yet to come.

Hundreds of years later maybe in some part of the country a mother would tell the fabled adventures of the hooded man... a man who was known to many by many names... but his identity... was only that of... an assassin.


	3. 14th of July, 1789

Across the river, one could spy the Louvre, and along the right bank was the Grand Chatelet. Behind him, a medieval temple overlooked the Third Arrondissement. Infront of him loomed the Bastille, it's broken ramparts like jagged fringes; the bleached remnants of the bones of some giant prehistoric animal. The Cathedral's shadow darkened the square where he stood, filled with hundreds of people jostling one another, dangling flaming effigies on poles, chanting, squabbling and scuffling the remaining of the guards and scattered militia to a corner. The Governor of Bastille, Bernard-Rene de Launay was dragged up to the wooden pulpit. There like the ever steadfast alibi of thousands who have died unjustified and oppressed, stood the instrument that had struck terror in hearts of people for centuries during the reign of Louis and Napoleon; the Guillotine.

Amongst the crowd he recognised, Bordelon. A brother in arms. Whose family was butchered by this very same man who now begged and pined for mercy. The crowd hooted leering in anticipation as Launay's crimes were recounted. He was dragged to be secured to the iron hold of the frame. Such terror those frightened eyes spoke of, eyes that should not have belonged to someone who took pleasure in condemning innocent people. Sou by sou, the punishment for his crimes were exacted. The Reign of Terror was finally at its end.

The blade was released; and swiftly it fell severing the head clean off the body. Splat! And streams of carmine seeped through the narrow gaps between the planks. The expression of cold horror frozen in place forever.

The crowd cheered, hollering with insults and prayers. God's hand of justice was severe. For the first time the city was alight with hope and terror.

As for him, his work was not done yet. There still remained for him to seek out a man. L'Homme au Masque de Fer ( The Man in the Iron Mask ). The last legacy of Louis XIII.

Somewhere in the ruins of Bastille, in the dark smelly pits of the underground tunnels he lay imprisoned awaiting like a saint to be set free. Years of devout longing and patience. For his own sake, Bouchard hoped he was dead. The angry mob outside was not as forgiving as him.

* * *

A/N : While reading this story, please bear in mind that this piece promises no historical accuracy. Literary liberty has been taken, to tamper and modify the historical sequence of events, facts and figures to suit the needs of this piece written to bring it to an anti-climactic conclusion. Geographical information is accredited to The Times, as I have never been to France myself in person. But one can always dream, right?


End file.
